Rocking Chair
by connorfemway
Summary: Sometimes words are the key to relief. Fem!Connor


"Do you ever think about starting a family? And if so with who?"

A reply to an ask on the ask blog **connorfemway** on tumblr.

Contains some foreshadowing for the next Sam the Third story, because this is technically supposed to be a sort-of sequel to it (even though I haven't written it's prequel yet. Go me).

I've been very busy lately with university. There's three weeks left in this semester and I've been busy attending all the events and such required for class. I've felt very much off my game with my writing because of it. I keep starting replies and end up giving up halfway through because I don't feel satisfied with how I'm writing it. I was able to make it all the way through this one, though. Even so, I don't feel that it's my best stuff, and it's a rather simple story.

It's also not proofread very well eeeerrrr. Of course, that doesn't mean I didn't put as much heart into it as my others, I always try to give you guys my best. So, as always:

Enjoy.

* * *

A rocking chair's creak is dull yet comforting in the darkness.

Fingernails dig into splintered wood. From within the darkness, breathing erupts in evenly timed clouds. It is so tense on this side of the dark room, where the moonlight does not reach. The repetitive creaking is the only thing that allows Connor to sit still and not fidget with the many things she wears.

"You've not removed your hood since you arrived, Connor."

She was home, wasn't she? Within the land of the Homestead was where she made her home, right?

Despite the words spoken by a soft, gentle voice, Connor does not move. Her eyes are glued upon the shadow of the mother who rocks her baby, the moonlit window open behind her. A dull summer's breeze creeps its way inside the room.

"Connor?"

A long sigh escapes a pair of flared nostrils. It is the only manageable reply the Assassin can force.

"Do you mind if I sing to him?"

"I do not," her voice is so small, even Connor herself cannot properly hear it.

In the dark, Prudence offers a smile. She turns her attention to the baby boy in her arms. Sing-song words begin to leave her lips.

Connor lets her eyes fall closed, frowning deeply.

Every so often, a pair of tiny hands appear in the shadow that the Assassin cannot see. Tiny fingers wiggle with new feeling. Soft noises leave a small throat as the mother sings her boy into sleep.

By the time the songs have ended, the boy has fallen into sleep.

Connor's eyes reopen. In the darkness, Prudence is staring.

"If you've something to say, you should say it, Connor," the woman's chuckle is light, as though she makes an effort to lighten the tense mood her company harbors.

A chin is ducked low.

"I have nothing to say," she states, as though it were always this simple.

"Then what do you wish to hear?"

Prudence's observant nature would forever bewilder the Assassin. Her friend was a woman of simple living but of a caring and practical attitude.

"Why you chose to be with Warren."

In the dark, Prudence tilts her head to the side. The pseudo-question is sudden but not unwarranted by the farmer's standards. In reality, it probed more thought than anything. Curiosity.

"I didn't choose Warren," the woman chuckles, "He chose me."

The rocking chair fills the void that follows these words. Hidden beneath a cowl, shrouded from the glare of the moonlight, Connor's lips part with incredulous confusion. Brows furrow. Fingernails dig deeper into wood, splinters burying themselves into her skin.

Prudence glides her hand over her son's forehead. He sleeps peacefully in his mother's arms, lulled to sleep by the dull creak of the rocking chair and the brief voices of his two favorite women.

As close as they were, there were so many differences between these two women.

When the silence has been less than fruitful, Prudence's voice reappears, clarity to confused ears.

"That man's priorities were different than most when he was young, and it attracted many women," the memories seem to be recalled with great fondness, "He wasn't focused on a family early. He was focused on achieving a dream. His determination earned him many affections, none of which he had the time to return."

Slowly Prudence stands up from her rocking chair, cradling Hunter in her arms. Treating him with fragility was key - this boy was precious to her. It meant the world when the woman made her way through the darkness to hand the boy off to the woman who sits rigidly in an old wooden chair against the back wall.

"He chose me because I shared his dream," Connor's fingernails dig themselves out of the wood as she reaches out to take Hunter into her arms. Posture is adjusted, cautiously, to cradle the boy. Prudence then moves away, over to a shelf near the corner of the room, "I was one of many who found him to be a remarkable man. He saw my dream and I saw his dream. Thing worked out for the best."

Pieces of clothing and a few blankets are tossed into a basket on the floor. Connor settles the tiny baby against her chest, finding comfort and contentment in his soft breathing.

"There are only so many reasons why you might ask such a thing of me, Connor," Prudence flashes a bright smile the Assassin's way, "I can tell you've something on your mind."

When she comes back over the Assassin's way, Prudence extends a hand and plucks up the beak-tip of the cowl that hangs over her face. It is tossed back, removing the hood from Connor's head.

The small act stirs the ghost of a smile to appear upon rough lips.

"I have something on my mind always, Prudence," while the mood has lightened that tiny bit, there is still the need present to deny speaking of an event of earlier in time.

"Don't sass me," the woman states sternly yet playfully, "You're a busybody, Connor. Hardly taking the time to relax, always have to have something on your plate... But whatever this is, it is bugging you more than usual."

Footsteps glide along the wooden floors. From somewhere within the house there is movement. Warren is a ghost in the halls.

Connor takes several moments to adjust her state of mind. The tense atmosphere has dissipated, but the inner tension has not fled.

"I worry whether I might have a family of my own some day," in the darkness, movement has paused. Connor takes a moment to collect her thoughts, to adjust the sleeping boy in her arms, "I worry if I will be able to settle down. To enjoy a peaceful life."

Eyes fall to the empty rocking chair that sits beneath the moonlit window. It's creaking has subsided. Idly it sits, a gentle reminder of the comfort present before but not now.

"I have thought, in my worst moments, what it might have been like if I had stayed in my village. If I had opted for a simple life instead of the life I lead now," Prudence's shadow has appeared in the light cast off from the window, "I wonder what such a life might have held for me."

"It would have held simplicity, Connor," Prudence tips her head to the side, blanket tossed over one of her arms, "It is as Warren and I have said, always. Simple is not always better."

"I wonder what my people think of me, Prudence," mouth slowly easing into a mode of unchecked admittance, Connor feels relief starting to settle upon her shoulders, "I realized today that many of them have lost hope in me."

A chair is lifted up from the floor. Slow steps lead the chair to settle upon the floor in front of Connor. The farmer takes a seat in it, and tiny Hunter is passed off to his mother.

"Hope is one thing, Connor," Prudence settles her boy against her chest, cradled in her arms, "Faith is another. How many of them have lost faith in you, do you think?"

The Assassin's brows furrow with another bought of confusion. Prudence's words are surveyed for what they are as she cannot see the woman in this darkness. Prudence is a mere silhouette.

"Even if some many lose hope, there is still faith placed in you, from many sides," Prudence nods her assurance, "Hard work is rewarded in the end, as well."

"How hard must I work, then?" Connor mutters, deciding to let the thoughts on faith and hope be left for another day, "I do much for those I care for. Despite this, I cannot keep two men from becoming enemies simply because I am present."

Two different faces flash before her eyes. Was either man suitable for the place for which they seemed to unconsciously fight? It was hard to say - but Connor would keep neither in mind. Nobody would be kept in mind.

The place of husband was open, and would be open for a long time to come, she was sure.

The situation is unknown to Prudence, but she seems to understand with a nod of her head. Observant as always, she has connected the pieces of their conversation.

"That is their choice, Connor. You should expect it, anyways," Prudence chuckles lightly, reaching out to pay the Assassin's knee, "Men will_ always_ fight over pretty ladies."

Connor audibly scoffs, provoking soft laughter from Prudence.

"I am neither pretty nor a 'lady'," a small amount of relief has Connor adjusting her posture yet again, "I cannot help but worry for my future, Prudence. I would like children, but I do not have the time to dedicate to them and do not know when I ever will. I would like a husband, but am not yet ready to choose nor dedicate the willpower. I would like peace of mind in my life, but the thought of simply sitting down to relax is foolish when there is much to be done."

"Take it in stride, Connor," Prudence leans down and presses a kiss to her son's forehead, "You once said that I should be patient - that nature might grant me a child in its own time. I am sure, then, that the forces that work this world will grant you your own children, husband, _peace_, in due time."

There was little to say when a piece of advice was turned back the way it came. Connor lowers her chin, offers only a nod of acceptance.

A burden has been lifted with speaking, a rare occurrence. In the darkness there is silence - within the silence, there is finally, peace.

The baby is settled into his cradle. The two women that stand over him offer comfort, and the little bit of stirring he has done disappears. He sleeps peacefully, dark face unseen yet felt within the black of the room.

Once Prudence has left to fetch a fresh blanket for her boy, Connor steps heavily across the floor and over to the rocking chair that sits idly beneath the window. Moonlight lights her white robes, bounces off of her scarred cheeks. Gloved fingers are flexed as her heavy weight is settled into the rocking chair, the padding in her outfit becoming an unwelcome burden.

The shadow cast is bulkier than that of Prudence. With a breath, the Assassin begins to rock slowly and softly in the chair. The heel of her right foot controls the movement.

A tired pair of eyes close.

This rocking chair's creak is dull yet comforting in the darkness.


End file.
